By Accident
by A Ginger
Summary: A strange new family moves into town, a fact that Emma cant help but notice. The whole school is drooling over brazen young Dean Winchester, but frankly she's unimpressed. But what happens when they're forced to play nice for the sake of safety? non-slash
1. Enter The Punk

**A/N: I'm uploading this story with the same amount of conviction that kids play tag. Think of me as throwing this first chapter at you, yelling, "You touched it last!" and running away. If I'm lucky, you guys won't be **_**too**_** disappointed at the lack of slash (no, this isn't a Dean/Sam fic) and will hopefully enjoy it anyway :) I'd love to get some reviews back on this, just so I know if you guys want another chapter! This started out as a fic I wrote for fun, sort of a nonsense stress-reliever in between chapters of ****Tethered****, etc. **

**~o~**

**Chapter One: Enter the Punk**

The new boy at school wouldn't have caught my attention if he weren't a dangerous combination of two things: attractive and unique. No one around Cidersburg, Ohio wore leather jackets, much less in late March. Dean Winchester did, though. Every girl in Mrs. Walkins' General Physics class noticed, and it was several minutes after his introduction that the torrent of whispers and giggles subsided and the class was reeled back into focus. The boys in the class despised Dean Winchester immediately, but he didn't seem inclined to mind. He took his appointed seat by the window at the far side of the room and nothing else was said about him – not out loud, anyway. He had no books with him, no papers of any sort. He didn't even bother listening to the lecture. After exchanging very suggestive glances with several of the prettier girls in class, he fell asleep over his desk.

Just what the school needed; another dead-end jerk with more looks than brains. My seat was at the other end of the room, so I had no trouble in turning my attention from the new guy. I resigned myself to ignoring him.

Underneath my determined focus away from the new student, I admitted that maybe I was curious about him. There was a way about his presence in the room, how he didn't appear the slightest bit self-conscious or awkward, which set him noticeably apart from the others in the class. Maybe he wasn't a jerk at all, but someone who was maybe just a cut above the rest; someone had told me once that exceptional people often appeared arrogant, and so far, Dean Winchester definitely fit that latter qualification. I toyed with the idea of trying to talk to him after class, but by the time I'd half-formulated the conversation in my head, I felt so stupid that I threw the idea aside completely.

It would be better to ignore him. Better, yes, but of course the world would have other opinions.

**~o~**

"Emma! Wait, Em – Excuse _me_, jerk, I'm walkin' here!"

In the hallway headed to sixth period, I was caught up by my best friend at Hodgenson Memorial High School. Regina Northers was a loud girl in both speech and personality, but somehow she remained on the near side of off-putting. Rather than abrasive, Regina managed a level of 'friendly' that I still couldn't understand (well, she was friendly to everyone but freshmen).

After shoving aside the freshman boy who was in her way, Regina came up beside me. We shared the same sixth period, and it was custom that we walk together. There was a wide, excited sort of smile on her face that she seemed barely able to contain. Regina was a pretty girl, all the boys thought so. She was wearing lip gloss today, and her waist-level blonde hair was in loose waves down her back.

"I've just seen God," Regina said with a starry look in her eyes.

I snorted. It was supposed to come out as a laugh, but it got choked somewhere along the way. "And He's been here in Ohio all this time? Well hot damn, better alert Fox News."

Regina waved her hand, too impatiently eager to deal with my petty humor. "_No_, Emma, I mean _whoa_. He's so cute that I'm surprised they even let him _enroll_ at this school. Wait until you see him."

"See _who, _Reg?"

"The new guy. He's in Jovi Bennett's third hour. She pointed him out to me just now and _oh my God_, Em, you'll die when you see him."

Our progress down the hall faltered until we stopped completely.

I snorted again. "I've already seen him, I think. His name is Dean or something, right? Yeah, he's in my Physics class."

Regina did a spazzed out little jump-and-squeal, like she was a ten year-old in the Barbie aisle at the toy store. "So you _know_, then! Isn't he gorgeous?"

Her smile was almost too ecstatic to deny, but I shrugged. "Eh, yeah, he's cute but I dunno, Reg. He seems weird to me. And by weird, I mean he looks like a jerk." He was weird in other ways, though. I wouldn't tell Regina this, but there was something about Dean Winchester that made me uncomfortable. For a high school bad boy, he was a little too over the top. His attitude seemed more well-earned than any of the other guys who thought they were tough shit. I couldn't explain it – not even to myself – but Dean Winchester seemed dangerous.

"People thought _you_ were weird, too, when you came here, missy." Regina giggled and poked me in the shoulder.

It was true. Just over a year ago, I'd been the new kid in school. My mom and I, well, we move around a lot. We have to for her job. At least, that's what I've told everyone at Hodgenson Memorial. The bare-bones truth is too far off the normal spectrum, which was why I kept it all to myself. I'd never even told Reg what my mom actually did for a living.

I batted Regina's hand away, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you start hunting down this Dean guy, though, leave me out of it."

Regina frowned. "Aw, come on! You never go on dates. Like, remember Brent? He totally liked you! And you guys went on, like, _one_ date."

"Brent is a moron. And he's too handsy!"

"Okay, yeah, maybe. But he _is_ cute. Too bad, though. You lost your chance."

I laughed. "Yeah, I lost him to Stacey Mills. If you ask me, they belong together."

Regina giggled as well. After we both said a few more slanderous things about Hodgenson's biggest and baddest "power couple," Regina led the way to Study Hall. We entered the room just as the bell was ringing. I followed Regina inside, letting the door fall shut behind me. But rather than the soft click of the door's mechanisms sliding home, I heard the muffled pat of someone catching the door with their palm.

I glanced over my shoulder on instinct.

"Hey, doll." It was the new kid – Dean Winchester. He smirked at me, and I had just enough time to turn back around before he could catch me blushing. I may not have been in his fan club like Regina and the other girls, but he was damn cute up close.

Regina looked over as well at the sound of Dean's voice. Her appraisal of him was professionally subtle yet flirtatious, and Dean seemed to notice her right away. Hunting season had officially started.

"You've gotta be Dean Winchester," Regina said. She sat down at our usual table at the back of the room, and Dean made himself comfortable at the desk in front of us.

His grin was easy and instantaneous, gushing nothing but confidence and an inflated ego. He was the kind of guy who knew how attractive he was, and he didn't mind exploiting that fact. He and Brent would have gotten along.

"You know me?" Dean said. His eyes flicked up and down, no doubt appreciating Regina's undeniably nice body. When he looked over at me, his gaze grew a fair bit disinterested, like he was only barely okay with the fact that I was there.

Regina giggled softly, glancing over at me and grinning. She leaned forward on the table, putting her chin in her palm. "Well, of course. Everyone's been talking about you."

Dean chuckled under his breath. This close to him, I could tell that his leather jacket wasn't some sort of fashion statement; it looked old, worn in, like he'd had it a long time. "And what's your name?" His eyes didn't leave my friend, neither did his grin.

"Regina," she replied. "Regina Northers." She stuck out one hand and smiled at him.

Dean chuckled and shook Regina's hand. When their hands clasped, Regina's all but disappeared. Dean had large hands that I noticed with a glance looked rough. Internally I chastised myself for looking too much at this guy. I hated to think I was analyzing him. Leaving Regina to her flirting, I opened my Psychology book and began my outline of chapter six.

I loved Regina and everything, but when it came to boys, she had a terrible habit of choosing _them_ over _me_. She didn't do it out of snobbery or spite, I knew that for sure. Really Regina cared about me, and she always caught herself before she left me too long out of the conversation. She was the one who set me up with Brent Tanner in the first place. After the fact, she assured me that she had no idea what a complete low-life he was, but at the time I'd been flattered. Even if I wasn't so much of a beauty queen as Regina, I was no troll. She always told me I was a "classic pretty." Every time I showed up to school in a ponytail or without makeup, Regina liked to nag me until I at least let her give me some eyeliner. She was a sweet girl, but we had different priorities.

"—just me and my brother Sam," Dean was saying. I finished my psych outline with twenty minutes left of class, so I had no choice but to attempt to join the conversation (if I didn't, Regina wouldn't let me hear the end of it).

"Well what about your mom?" Regina said. She was still slightly leaned over the table, giving Dean her full attention, which he seemed to appreciate.

Dean took a moment to clear his throat. His eyes took a surprising downcast, as if Regina had asked a question he was hoping she wouldn't. "She died," he said. "When I was a kid. Don't really remember her all that much." When he looked back up, his eyes flicked to me. He took notice that I'd stopped playing the geek, and he smirked slightly at the discovery. "You're in my physics class," he said, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"Uh, yeah." I glanced at Regina. She winked at me without Dean noticing.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Emma," I replied. I brushed my bangs out of my face, feeling my cheeks get warm all over again. I'd never been good at making small talk with people that I knew nothing about. I would never have become friends with Regina in the first place if not for her persistent attitude.

Dean's attention lingered on me another second or two. He gave a dry chuckle and leaned back in his seat, scratching the back of his head. "Man, so is this town a real drag or what? Bet nothin' good happens here."

Regina and I exchanged a look. She seemed enthralled, but I was just ready to go home.

"It's pretty boring," Regina said. "But there are _some_ fun things to do."

"Oh yeah?" The quirk of Dean's eyebrow was more suggestive than one expression should be allowed to hold. I was becoming steadily more fed-up with him.

Regina giggled, oblivious to my agitation. "Well yeah. There's the old Snyder house."

"Oh come on, Reg, that's nothing but a stupid story," I said quickly. I knew exactly what road she was planning to walk with that tid-bit of local lore.

"Is it a _scary_ story?" Dean said, chuckling. He looked between Regina and I, a smirk etched into his face. "I love scary stories."

Regina smiled at him, moving in just a little closer as if the story were a secret. "Well, get ready for this one, then," she said with a playful edge to her voice. "Fifteen years ago, the Snyder house belonged to James Snyder and his four kids. His wife was dead when they moved to town, but everyone says that James was a good father, so no one thought much of it. About a year after they moved in, the youngest Snyder girl died. Just dropped dead for no reason at all. The doctors couldn't explain it; it was like little Georgia's heart just stopped workin'. Well James couldn't handle it. He started going a little crazy after Georgia died. He told everyone in town that his daughter's _ghost_ or something was haunting the house. Of course, no one believed him. Then, he just sorta disappeared. His kids didn't show up for school, Snyder didn't show up for work. A month to the day that Georgia Snyder died, the whole rest of the Snyder family was found in the basement of their house, each one of them dead. But you see, the real sick part is, well: James Snyder _killed_ his kids. Bashed their heads in with the butt of his shotgun, then went and shot himself.

"_Now_, no one from around here goes in the Snyder house. No one lives there for long, either. It gets rented out now and again, but even out-of-towners know somethin' ain't right with it. And they say that if you stand in the street in front of that house on April fifth at midnight, you'll see the ghost of James Snyder standing in Georgia's old bedroom with that bloody shotgun in his hands."

Regina finished her story with a small grin at Dean.

"Wow," he said, chuckling softly. "Maybe Cidersburg ain't that boring after all."

"It's just a story," I said again. "There's no ghost in that house."

Dean raised his eyebrows at me, surprised, like he'd forgotten I was there. "You know that for a fact?"

I nodded once. "Yep."

"Well they always say it's the skeptics who prove the rule."

"No one says that," I said flatly.

Dean shook his head. He was looking fixedly at me now, his eyes moving over my face. I could practically feel him staring at me and I didn't like it at all. "All I'm saying is that you probably _don't_ know for sure. I'd be willing to bet the story's true."

"You'd lose that bet."

Beside me, Regina giggled, sounding suddenly nervous. "Guys, come on, chill okay? Didn't mean to upset anyone, here. Emma's probably right, Dean, the whole Snyder house thing's just a story they use to scare kids."

There was the noise and chatter of the class beginning to pack up. School was two minutes to being over, and I hadn't even noticed the clock. I broke the suspended staring contest with Dean and hurriedly put away my things. God, if I could just not act like a freak in the presence of jerks who'd only tease me, that'd be a great note to my social life.

"Yeah, maybe you're right, Regina," Dean said. I hated how amused he sounded.

When the bell rang, I made up some excuse to part ways with Regina and Dean, saying that I had to stop by my English classroom and talk to the teacher. As soon as Regina made me promise to call her later, I nodded absently and left them, barely bothering to bid Dean a goodbye. He didn't seem to mind all that much, and I'm pretty sure he was too busy checking out Stacey Mills as she walked past.


	2. For Your Own Good

**A/N: I didn't want to leave chapter one sitting by itself for too long, mostly because it's pretty boring. So here's an (ill-advised) second update for the day :)**

**~o~**

**Chapter Two: For Your Own Good**

Every kid of a certain age in Cidersburg, Ohio knew about the Snyder house. The real thrill was its recent history. Most ghost stories were about crusty old nineteenth-century victims, but this bit of urban legend wasn't really a legend at all. Plenty of kids risked spending the night in the old Snyder place, but unless they'd taken an oath of secrecy, no genuine ghost contact had ever been experienced. Odds were, no one would _ever_ have a run-in with Mr. James Snyder.

How could I – a relative new kid on the block – know this for sure? Easy. My mom was the one who cleaned out that house. Not with a broom or a mop, either, she _cleaned _it. As in: the ghost of James Snyder would never kill anyone again. That was her job. She fought ghosts. Well, not only ghosts. Anything, really, that was evil and inhuman. Witches, Wendigos, Werewolves, the whole nine yards and then some. We were hunters. Just doing our duty.

Returning home from school that day, I was doing anything I could to _not_ think about two things: the Snyder house and cocky, arrogant Dean Winchester. It was proving to be a pain in the ass to do, seeing as the first thing I saw upon walking into the parking lot _was_ Dean Winchester. He drove a Chevy Impala (I only knew this because I'd heard two starry-eyed girls gushing about it in the hall), and damn did he look proud of it. He was leaning against the Impala's back bumper, just standing there like he was waiting for someone. I kept my head down as I went past, and even though I was at the other side of the parking lot, I got the feeling he'd seen me. By the time I got to my own car, Dean was warmly greeting a shaggy-haired boy that I hadn't seen before. Must have been his brother, Sam. As I watched them in my rearview mirror, I found myself feeling slightly warmer toward Dean Winchester. The way he smiled and said hello to his brother with a pat to the boy's back, it was nothing like the cocky demeanor he'd kept up in class. It was after Sam got into the car and I watched Dean cat-call two cheerleaders that I returned to my less-than favorable opinion.

"Stop being such a freak," I said under my breath. I wasn't proud of having to vocally _tell_ myself to stop caring about Dean Winchester, but there I was, starting up my car in extreme agitation and praying that I'd contract some sort of flu which would keep me out of school and away from him.

Turning up the volume on my radio, I drove home with the windows down. It was a Monday, which meant it was my turn to cook dinner at home. Mom and I took turns. I had Monday through Wednesday, and she covered Thursday through Saturday. Sunday was take-out. The only thing that ever messed up our schedule was a hunt. Sometimes I went with her, and other times I stayed home. Even though hunting monsters was terrifying, I always preferred to go with her. It wasn't that I loved the adrenaline high or the God complex that came with saving strangers, really I just wanted to make sure she stayed safe. Being home by myself, wringing my hands and pacing the empty hallways, that was worse than hours crouched in a ghoul's den. Mom was all the family I had left. She must have felt the same, because she brought me along as often as she could.

**~o~**

We lived in a middle-sized home in a blue-collar neighborhood about five miles from the school. Mom worked part-time as a receptionist for some big-time lawyer in the city, so we managed to keep up with the rent payments. I kept a job waitressing at a local diner to help Mom out as much as I could. Whenever a hunt came our way, Mom used a fictional aunt with cancer as her scapegoat, and all I had to do was flirt a bit with my manager to get a shift change.

Mom's car was already in the driveway when I got home. That got me nervous. She usually didn't get off work until five. I nearly tripped over the porch steps on my way in, but I called out to her the moment I opened the front door.

"We're in here, Emma!" She didn't sound panicked or anxious, so I ruled out the supernatural as the cause for her presence.

"We?" I said, quietly to myself. Her voice had come from the kitchen, and when I stepped through the door, I realized what she meant.

Mom stood as I entered, as did a man that I didn't recognize. His face was scruffy with five-o'clock shadow, and tell-tale darkness below his eyes said he hadn't slept much lately. I couldn't tell how old he was, but he was in good shape no matter what age. He gave me a small smile and nodded his head.

"Uh, hi," I said, looking quickly between the man and my mom. She stepped forward and put a hand to my arm, guiding me into the room.

"This is John, honey," Mom said. "He's an old friend of mine."

John cleared his throat and offered his hand. I shook it, feeling at once how rough his skin was.

"You're a hunter?" I said.

He surprised me with a chuckle. "Is it that obvious?"

I chuckled as well, looking down for a moment. "It's your hand; it's rough, just like a hunter's."

John nodded, turning to Mom. "I see you've got her trained pretty well, Molly."

There was something I didn't like about the word "trained," as if I were a soldier or a recruit. Not to mention it made me feel like a puppy that had been taught to sit or roll over.

Mom smiled softly, squeezing my arm with affection. "Oh, yes, she's got a real knack for the business."

They both looked at me, Mom with pride and John with interest. Awkwardly, I lifted my right foot to scratch the back of my left calf with the toe of my sneaker. "Uh, well it's nice to meet you," I said to the strange man.

John nodded. "You too."

"Emma, why don't you go put your school stuff upstairs and then come join us down here? There's something we need to talk about." Mom nodded toward the stairs. There was a doorway adjacent the kitchen which led the foyer. I was just about to go through that door when John called after me.

"Uh, what time does your school let out, Emma?"

I turned, eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. "Three o'clock, sir."

John looked at the watch on his left wrist and sighed. "Hm, they're running late, then."

"Who is?" I said.

"Oh, John's sons, honey," Mom said.

Sons? A guy like this had kids? Hunters tended to be single operators as a rule. It looked like this John guy had just blown into town, but his sons were already enrolled in—

Wait. Sons. The son of a hunter would be pretty distinct. He'd be easy to spot, marked by an awareness that went beyond the earthly level. And this John guy wasn't exactly disgusting to look at, either. Now who did I know who was out of the ordinary, new to town, and at least a little attractive?

"Dean Winchester?" I said. The name came to my lips before I could stop myself. The possibility that _Dean Winchester_ would be coming to my house was equal parts revolting and riveting.

John drew back slightly, like I'd caught him off guard. "Yeah, Dean."

"And Sam?"

He chuckled, glancing again at my mother. "You—you know them? They haven't caused trouble, have they?" When he looked back to me, his brow was severe. I felt for a moment like _I_ was the one in trouble.

"No sir! Nothing like that." I shrugged, scratching the back of my head. "Uh, well, Dean's in a few of my classes, and I only heard him talk a little bit about Sam."

"How'd you know they were hunters?" John crossed his arms over his chest. Was he testing me?

"No offense, sir," I said, laughing a little, "but it's not exactly a far stretch. Besides, we don't get new kids very often in Cidersburg."

"Ah," John said. He seemed satisfied with the answer, although something in his eyes grew thoughtful.

He and Mom sat back down at the kitchen table, each with a beer. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, which was the only thing on the second floor of the house. Technically, I lived in the attic. It was the triangular top of the house which had been turned into a living area. It was a good enough size, and I had my own bathroom. If you ignored the occasional bump of your head on the slanted roof, it was perfect, especially for a teenage girl.

When I started up the stairs, Mom and John were already talking in low voices. I reached my bedroom and tossed my school things onto my desk, immediately falling into bed. What was going on? Mom had that look in her eyes; the look that said she was trying to stay cheery for my sake but underneath she was worried. There wasn't a hunt in town, was there? No one had died recently, at least not in any way out of the ordinary. We always kept our sights peeled for any supernatural activity nearby, and so far, Cidersburg was clean.

None of this made sense. None of it was _normal_. I sighed, running my hands over my face. Quite possibly, John Winchester was just settling down in town for a while. Yeah, maybe there was no hunt – it was just a…a visit. After a moment I rolled to my side to face my desk. On the corner of it was a picture frame.

"You seein' all this, Dad? We're about to have a dinner party with a bunch of hunters."

I sat up, taking the picture frame. It was a heavy thing, sturdy and old and was perfect for my picture of Dad. Well, I guess it was perfect for Dad _and_ Rus; like father like son, they were men of equally modest taste. I ran my finger over the glass, a smile coming onto my face. Dad and Rus were standing side by side, dressed in their matching hobo Halloween costumes. Rus looked like he was in mid-sentence, caught half-way between a laugh and a shout. Dad's eyes were closed, but that was alright. He was laughing. They'd be like that forever in their old frame – suspended in an everlasting moment where everything was simple.

"Miss you guys," I whispered to the photograph. A sound from my window made me look up. My bed was against the wall, right beneath a domed window that looked out onto the street. Careful not to put it down too hard, I set the frame back on my desk and moved to the window.

A black car was pulling into the driveway. It sat there for a moment, like its passengers were debating about coming inside the house. I heard the engine shut off, then the passenger's door opened. Sure enough, the younger brother, Sam, stepped out and looked up at the house. He was a nice-looking kid – surprisingly sweet-faced for being related to someone like Dean Winchester. His eyes roamed the face of the house like he was assessing it very carefully. He seemed particularly intrigued by the small flower bed in front of the porch.

When Sam's gaze suddenly lifted to my window, I moved quickly away. I knew I could be seen by someone standing in front of the house, and for some reason, being caught watching the brothers' arrival was embarrassing to me. But before I could stop myself, I peeked back outside. Sam was gone, presumably starting up the front steps of the porch, but a more familiar face was now looking over the house.

Dean lingered for only a moment. One of his hands was shoved into the pocket of his jacket, while the other jingled his keys. Finally he shook his head slightly and walked toward the house until he was out of sight; looked like he wasn't more excited about the visit than I was. I only prayed they wouldn't stay long.

Before I went back downstairs, I made a stop at my bedroom mirror. I wasn't sure why, but I convinced myself I was only concerned with my appearance because the Winchesters were friends of Mom's. We didn't have people over often, and the last thing I wanted was to embarrass her by looking like a troll.

My hair was a little ruffled, so I hastily ran my fingers through it and was met with success when it laid nicely over my shoulders. My simple top and dark jeans weren't the height of any fashion trend, but I'd always liked the way the turquoise material of that blouse played with the olive tones in my skin. I hadn't bothered with makeup that morning but didn't have time to worry about that now. Just as Mom was calling my name up the stairs, I was headed down.

"Yeah, Mom, coming," I said. She was waiting at the bottom of the steps with a strangely pleased smile on her face. I knew she enjoyed having company, even if the company in question was a little less than conventional.

I could hear low, decidedly male voices coming from the direction of the living room. The words were indecipherable, but at least one of the parties didn't sound happy. I kept myself from groaning when I recognized Dean's voice. Mom put her arm around my shoulders as we went through the foyer and into the living room. The voices there stopped.

The first thing I realized when we entered the room was that Dean looked an awful lot like his father. They even stood the same way; hands in their pockets and their feet spread apart. When we walked in, they both looked away from each other and regarded us with the same lifting and relaxing of their eyebrows. The expression was so effortless that neither of them seemed to realize the similarity. Sam, on the other hand, was a bit separate from them. He stood by the front window where a high stack of shelves held me and Mom's favorite books. He was still perusing the collection when Mom pushed me forward for introductions.

"Well, Emma tells me you two already know each other," she said to Dean.

He managed a slight nod and a smirk that was only slightly smug. "Yes, ma'am. Hey," he said in my direction. I only nodded, giving a dry smile that lacked sociability.

"And, uh, this is Sam," John said. He took his youngest son by the shoulder and lightly pulled him away from the books. "Say hi." John affectionately patted his son at the side of the head.

"Hi," Sam said, smiling after a moment's thought. "I like your house."

Mom and I exchanged a glance, and I heard myself giggle.

"Well thank you," I said. "You like books?"

Sam bit his lip, shrugging. "Yeah, I guess so." He looked up at his father, who chuckled and looked up at us.

"Sam's the one and only Winchester bookworm," John said.

I smiled at Sam. He really did seem like a good kid – there was something sincere about him, like he was polite because he wanted to be, not because he was being told. Maybe maturity came with his lifestyle? If so, I saw no excuse for Dean, who had started picking at a blister on his palm.

"Well hey, why don't you guys sit down," Mom said, snapping into her ages-old role of hostess. It was almost weird to see her entertaining guests like a regular housewife, when only last week we'd been cleaning guns at the kitchen table. "Sam, Dean, you want something to drink?"

"No," Dean said, and as an after-thought, "thanks."

"Water?" Sam glanced at his dad and added, "Please?"

Mom smiled again and went into the kitchen. I sat on the cushioned bench seat that the front window offered, while John and Sam sat beside each other on the couch. Dean remained standing at his father's side like some kind of bodyguard. I wanted to tell him we didn't have any plans to _attack_ his family, but Dad always used to tell me, "Petting a scared dog sometimes just makes him wanna bite ya."

John was glancing around the room, looking with some kind of appreciation at all of our things. I could see a definite smile come into his eyes when he looked down at the coffee table, where several photographs of our family stood in frames. When he looked up, it was to catch me watching him.

"So, you and my mom hunt together?" I said quickly, not wanting to sit in awkward silence. I knew Mom worked jobs with other hunters before, but this was the first time I'd met one. Usually, I stayed behind if a case came up that was big enough to require two professionals.

John nodded once. "Yeah, she's helped me out a few times. Helped me kill a few werewolves out in Omaha once."

"Hey, I remember that one!" I said. "She made me wait behind in the apartment that time."

"Us too!" Sam cut in. "We weren't allowed to leave for five whole days. 'member that, Dean?" He craned his neck up at his brother.

Dean grunted. "I coulda gone on that hunt, y'know, Dad. I was like sixteen."

John's expression grew stern. "Then what would we have done with Sam, huh? Used him as bait for the wolves?"

"Aw, he can run fast, can't he?" Dean cracked a grin at his little brother, chuckling. It took a moment, but John shook his head and gave a dry laugh.

This was strange. Here they were, chatting about werewolves like a normal family would talk little league games. I thought I knew what life as a hunter was like, but these guys seemed to live it on a whole different level. Sam wasn't all that old, yet there he was looking eager about _werewolves_. I'd never even _seen_ a werewolf. It had never occurred to me what a rookie I was.

Mom came out of the kitchen then, a glass of water for Sam and two sodas. "Brought you somethin' to drink anyway, Dean," she said, "in case you change your mind." She smiled warmly at Sam as she set the glass of water in his hand, but didn't wait from a 'thank you' from Dean. Setting the sodas on the coffee table, Mom sat down in an armchair that we'd picked up from the Salvation Army. Everything in the house was pretty mismatched, even after a year in Cidersburg. You'd think that eventually we'd get some real furniture, but I think we both knew we wouldn't be there forever.

The adults exchanged glances, looking like they were about to speak but couldn't figure out what to say. I determinedly kept from looking at Dean – for some reason, I felt embarrassed. At school I'd brushed him off as being some jerk. Well, he still seemed like a jerk, but maybe there was more to it than that. Now he was in my house, chatting with my mom? It was like some kind of privacy invasion. Unfortunately, it looked like I'd have to get used to having him around. If his family was staying in town for a while, then Mom would undoubtedly invite them over every chance she got.

When the silence had gone on too long, I cleared my throat and said the first thing I could think of. "Are you hunting something in town, then? Something you need Mom's help with?" I looked at John as I said this, but I allowed myself an un-met glance at Dean.

My mother and John gave each other another look. "Uh, not exactly," John said, clearing his throat. "We were gonna wait till later to tell you all, but now's as good a time as any."

"Dad?" Dean said, worry entering his gruff voice.

John waved his son's interruption away. "There's a big hunt over in Wisconsin. Hunters from all over are bein' called in. From the sound of it, no one knows what they're up against. Thing's killed twelve people already." I watched him clasp his hands, staring down at them rather than look at his children.

"So, what, we're goin' to fight it?" Dean said.

"Yeah, Mom, can I come with you?" I said quickly, catching her eye. Something so huge would need all the hunters they could get to bring it down, but already I knew I wouldn't be fighting any time soon. After all, why would John enroll the boys in school only to leave and take them on a hunt?

Mom sat at the edge of her seat, elbows on her knees. Sighing, she said, "No, you guys can't come with us. It's too dangerous, and you kids are too young yet."

"But—"

"_Emma_," Mom snapped. "You aren't comin', okay? This hunt could take weeks, 'specially if all the other hunters keep bowing out the way they have been."

"What we want you kids to do," John said, "is stay here, together. Dean, don't give me that look, dammit. Your job is to take care of Sam, and if you're here, at least I know someone's lookin' after _you_, too."

Dean swore under his breath, kicking the corner of the couch with his boot. There was defiance in every inch of his body language, but he didn't argue the point. Suddenly I remembered John using the word "trained" about me earlier; well, how exactly had he trained his own son?

"Mom, come on," I said, turning to her. "_Please_, don't take this job. You said it isn't safe."

A wry grin tugged the corner of Mom's mouth. She stood and came to kiss the top of my head as she sat down beside me. "Now Emma, I'm no coward. I've got to get in on this. But I'm a mother first and a hunter second, and I'm _asking_ you to stay here with Dean and Sam and take _care_ of each other." She looked at me imploringly, so close that I could see all the flecks of brown in her green eyes. I was terrified – a job this dangerous was out of Mom's league. And if something happened to her, well, I'd be totally alone. We had no other family, and I didn't want to lose the last bit of one that I had left.

But she was right: Mom wasn't a coward, so I guessed I couldn't be one either. I looked up, biting my lip for a moment. "Al-alright," I said. "I-I'll stay here."

Mom smiled, the expression falling short of her eyes. She gave me a tight, but brief hug and looked over to John. "Go ahead and tell Emma I'll be coming back, would ya?" she said.

John chuckled. "Yeah, we'll be fine," he said to me. "I promise to bring your mom back."

All I could do was nod, because an outburst from Dean cut me off.

"Screw _this_!" he muttered. Dashing through the front door, Dean leapt from the front porch and took off running down the street. Like he'd been expecting it to happen, Sam called after his brother. No one could stop him before Sam sprinted through the door as well.

I got to my feet and went to the door, followed close behind by Mom and John. We stood on the porch and watched as Sam caught up to Dean at the end of the street. They began to argue; Dean yelled at Sam, and Sam yelled right back. Their words were lost to the distance, but I could tell that neither of them was thrilled at our present situation.

"Sorry, Molly," John said. His brow was tightly knit. "They're good kids. They just…"

"You don't have to explain, John." Mom turned and squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, what do you say we order some take-out and get the gear ready for tomorrow?"

The two of them went back into the house, but I stayed on the porch. The butterflies in my stomach kept me rooted to the spot as I watched Dean and his brother argue. I knew how they felt, feeling so terrified for their father but being utterly helpless and left behind. But while they had the privilege of venting their frustrations to each other, I could only swallow all that anxiety – I swallowed it and crunched it into a heavy ball that sat in the pit of my stomach. Later, after Mom had left, that ball would unfurl. When it did, I knew I'd lose control of myself as I did every time she left. I wouldn't feel myself again until she returned, tired and covered in blood but alive.

What did I have in the meantime? I had two strange boys to keep me company, neither of whom seemed to want to do anything with me.


	3. Eavesdropping

**A/N: There's something cathartic about writing this story. It's just fun and light. Have I mentioned that my biggest guilty pleasure in the world are those tweeny romance novels? You know what I'm talking about – they all have the same female narrator who falls for the same unlikely guy and after minimally damaging adventure, they totally end up in love. I eat that shit up like it's birthday cake. **

**~o~**

**Chapter Three: Eavesdropping **

I waited on the porch until the boys stopped fighting. Something about going inside to watch Mom prepare for the hunt was just a little too heavy. Call me terrible, but I'd much rather watch two strange boys make a spectacle of themselves on a suburban street. When they finally seemed to come to some sort of stand-still in their yelling, Dean turned and headed away from the house. I watched him turn left at the corner at disappear – my subdivision was not a simple one, leaving far too many places for an unaccustomed pedestrian to lose himself. I only hoped I wouldn't have to go Dean-hunting later if he lost his way.

Sam walked back with his head down, hands in his pockets. He didn't seem to realize that I'd been standing there until he actually turned and came up the front walk of the house.

"Oh," he said, halting. "Uh, hi."

"Hi." I gave him a small smile and unraveled my arms from around myself, letting them hang at my sides. "Where'd your brother go?"

Sam glanced back the way he'd come, but obviously Dean was nowhere to be seen. "A walk," he said.

"Oh."

Awkwardly, Sam climbed the two steps onto the porch. Standing in front of me, he was just barely short than me – boy, he was tall for a freshman. He scratched the back of his head, messing up his already frazzled brown hair that so well contrasted with his brother's closely cropped haircut. "So, uh, I guess we're roommates now, huh?" he said. He attempted a small smile.

I chuckled. "Yeah, guess so. It won't be so bad though, will it?" I felt all the trepidation in my voice; suddenly realizing that I didn't want Sam to be miserable here, while in Dean's case I really didn't care.

"Can you cook?" Sam said.

I was a little taken-aback by the question, and it made me chuckle again. "I think so. Like, I won't poison you or anything."

Sam looked up at me and cracked a smile, wider this time. "Sounds good to me. Dean's a really bad cook. Dad's worse."

"Well I don't promise anything fancy," I said, "but I can make pretty decent waffles, if that counts for anything."

He may have only been humoring me, but Sam made an overly-excited kind of humming noise, like he could already taste them. "Sounds good to me," he said. "Beats cold cereal."

We entered the house after a brief silence, both of us seeming to unconsciously agree that now was not the best time for chit-chat. Sam went straight for the kitchen, where our parents could be heard discussing weaponry. I left door open, only leaving closed the screen door; if Dean decided to come back any time soon, a half-open door seemed better than a totally closed one. I may not have particularly enjoyed his glowering presence, but he and I were somewhat alike. Neither of us wanted our parents out of our sight. We both wanted to be the protectors rather than the protected.

When I finally went to the kitchen, Sam was helping his dad pack shotgun shells full of rock salt. It was a trick that all hunters seemed to know, but where or how we knew it wasn't clear. The metaphorical grape vine that connected us – however loosely – must have passed more tricks along than any of us realized.

Mom looked up from the silver knife she was polishing and quirked one eyebrow at me. I could see in her eyes, and from the set line of her lips that she was silently asking me if everything was alright. After Dad and Rus died, we'd developed this nonverbal communication. When both of us were too numb from grief and fear, we'd taught ourselves to speak pages with only a few glances. I knew from the look that she was giving me then that she was sorry, sorrier than words _or_ weighted looks could say. She was also worried about me, maybe more so than I was for her. I felt my face relax slightly in return to her raised eyebrow, dropping a frown I hadn't realized I was carrying. She seemed to understand that I forgave her for having to leave, and more importantly for leaving me under the care of two young men I didn't know (or in one case trust). When I sat down beside her at the kitchen table, she set aside her polishing rag and tucked a bit of hair behind my ear. Her hand was warm against my face, and her smile was comforting, however thin.

Soon enough, I was roped into the preparation process. I cleaned a few knives with Mom, then moving to pack salt rounds beside Sam. We'd filled nearly two hundred shells in just over an hour, before anyone acknowledged out loud what we'd forgotten.

"Sam, did Dean say where he was goin'?" John said, his voice unfamiliarly deep to me, who was used to silences broken by Mom's feminine voice.

Beside me, Sam didn't pause in his work. "No," he said.

"Sam," John said, more sternly this time.

Sam glanced up at his father from beneath the ends of his hair. He bit his lip, possibly grappling with the truth. "All he said was that he needed to go for a walk," he said. "He wanted to clear his head or something."

Before John could do more than sigh in irritation, Mom cut in. "Why don't you go look for him in the car, and we'll pack my truck for tomorrow?" We'd prepared more than enough artillery, from holy water to herbs, even a few blood-tipped steaks of varying types of wood. John looked over the kitchen, which was feeling stuffed with all the duffel bags full of weapons.

"Yeah, alright," John said. He was already pulling on his coat, grabbing the keys to the Imapla from the kitchen counter. "Sam," he said – Sam's head perked up - , "stay here." With the clanging of the screen door, John was gone.

The truck took no more than five minutes to pack, even including the time taken to fix a cover over the truck-bed. But by the time we were back in the house, the sun was only an hour or two from setting and there was still no sign of John or Dean. Mom sat at the bench seat by the front window, reading a Latin book of monsters. The tome didn't seem to hold her attention much, because she kept looking up whenever a car drove by.

"He does this all the time," Sam said. He'd been engrossed in one of my paperback novels for the past several minutes, but he looked at Mom with established attention. "Dean, I mean. He gets mad a lot, so sometimes he just has to leave and think for a while. I think he's just mad for having to babysit me all the time," he added with a note of resentment.

Mom closed her book, shaking her head once. "I'm sure that's not true, Sam. Your dad's told me all about you and Dean, and there ain't a doubt in my mind that Dean care about you. It's just how boys Dean's age get. They want a little action now and again, hm?" She smiled softly.

"Where do you think he went?" I said. I leaned forward in the armchair, my unnoticed homework in my lap like a prop. "It's not like he knows the neighborhood."

Sam shrugged. "He could walk to the school from here. Maybe he went there."

"Come on, Sam, Dean doesn't seem like the type to wanna spend more time at school than he has to." I raised one eyebrow at Sam, like I was daring him to refute that. The convincing laughter I gained in response was reassuring.

"Emma," Mom said. "Why don't you go get Sam moved into his room? He might as well unpack his stuff if those guys are gonna be a while, yet." Our little house had three bedrooms. Two on the ground floor and my little attic room on top. At the moment, the spare bedroom was empty except for a queen-sized bed and a small, ugly chest of drawers that had come with the house. It wasn't the homiest of rooms, but hopefully, Sam and Dean wouldn't have to put up with it for too long.

Sam only had one bag of clothes that fit snugly into the top drawer of the dresser. Aside from that, there wasn't much "moving in" to do. Once he'd neatly put his clothes away and hung his backpack in the hook by the door, he sat down at the foot of the lumpy bed and bounced experimentally. An unsatisfactory groan crept out from the old springs, making both of us wince.

"I'm really sorry about the crappy living conditions," I said, chuckling. "If it gets too bad, the couch is probably more comfortable." For the lack of something else to do, I sat next to him, leaning back in my palms.

"No, it's fine," Sam said. He glanced around, and suddenly the cracks in the paint and the dusty overhead light made the room seen more dilapidated than usual. "I like it here a lot, actually. I mean, it's not as bad as it could be."

I laughed again. "You don't have to sugar-coat it. Cidersburg bites the big one."

Sam laughed too. "Honestly it doesn't. The school isn't so bad, and your mom's real nice. I just wish Dad wasn't leaving us behind. He does it all the time anyway, but there's somethin'…I dunno, different about this time." He started picking at a loose cuticle on his thumb, head downturned and thoughtful.

A sudden flash of memory kept me from saying anything for a moment – Rus, my dead big brother, used to tear his nails to shreds when he was nervous. His hands would catch so much abuse that they'd bleed, sometimes for weeks because he couldn't stop picking them. I found myself bumping my shoulder against Sam's, just trying to make him stop.

"Maybe that's why your dad brought you here," I said, "cause he knew this hunt would be different. Maybe he didn't want you and Dean on your own, just in case. Not that I think anyone's going to die, just that… well, I guess I'm glad you're here. I'd flip if my mom left me alone to go to Wisconsin."

Sam said nothing for a moment, only looked at me with a weird amount of self-assurance. I'd never met a fourteen year-old kid who could look so aware and controlled. Most guys his age were immature and raging with all sorts of obnoxious hormones. Even his smiles were measured. He must have had one hell of a childhood to make him look like that. "I'm glad I'm here, too, Emma," he said finally. "Thanks."

**~o~**

When Dean reappeared, I didn't see him, I heard him. There was a warm breeze outside, which I took advantage of with my window pushed wide open. I'd left Sam downstairs to let him do his first day's homework, and Mom hadn't left her spot by the window except to call in an order of pizza. We shared a more-or-less wordless meal, leaving several slices for John and Dean. The house was quiet, each of us left to our own devises. I'd almost forgotten that anything was amiss, until I heard Dean's distinctive voice waft in through the open window.

"—like a wimp to me."

My head popped up, pen paused on the sketch paper I'd been using for doodles. I couldn't believe I hadn't heard the Impala coming up the driveway, yet somehow Dean's voice came in loud and clear. A second voice made a disgruntled sound. When John spoke, there was a note of hush to it, making him almost impossible to hear. If not for the squat height of the house, I wouldn't have heard him at all.

"Don't you dare go picking fights," John said. His voice dipped in an out of clarity, the ends of words lost along the way. "–dness of Molly's heart to—And if I hear you try anything—Emma."

My name? I risked sitting up in bed, inching just beneath the window but keeping in mind that I would be an easy sight to see from the street. At least my new position made it easier to hear; I decided to blatantly ignore any weak guilt brought on by my eavesdropping.

"I'm not a total jerk, Dad," Dean said, sounding angry. He added something under his breath, of which I only caught the word "friend." More words were exchanged, and John sounded close to the end of his rope for the night. Soon they entered the house, and I could hear the door click resolutely shut. There were murmurs from downstairs, but quickly things grew quiet once again.

My head, on the other hand, was buzzing. What had John meant by "try anything?" I didn't like the sound of that, especially not in such close proximity to my name. I could only assume that John was worried that Dean might lose himself to his teenage hormones while sharing the house with a girl. Disgusting. Mom didn't even need to warn _me_ of that – there was no way I was going to let Dean so much as touch me. But what had Dean meant by "friend?" The tone in his voice had suggested laughter, like he was amused by whatever he was saying. He and I were by no means "friends" so, what? I shook my head at myself, nearing a headache.

It was still fairly early, but I felt exhausted. Mom and John would be leaving early the next morning, and I convinced myself that I would be able to get some sleep if I went to bed right then and there. In reality, I would probably spend the rest of the night tossing with grisly images of whatever hardships might befall Mom during the hunt. I turned out the lamp over my bed, sending the room into darkness. The only light to enter then was early moonlight. For the time being, I let myself stare at the ceiling, my eyes eventually roaming to the night sky, waiting for the first stars of the evening.

Maybe what John said was right. Mom would be coming home in a few weeks' time, and life could return to normal once devoid of the Winchesters. People at school would wonder about their sudden departure, and by then I was sure that more than one girl's heart would be broken without Dean to flirt with in class. Regina, especially, would mourn his disappearance. Why did my best friend have to be so silly about boys?

I hadn't felt my eyes slip close, nor had I realized I was falling into a hazy sleep; not that it mattered, because my eyes opened and my brain kick-started all at once.

I knew what Dean had said down in the driveway. "She's got a pretty cute blonde friend." The word "friend" repeated over and over in my head, replaying that damn chuckle each time. He was setting his sights on Regina. Dammit.


	4. The Roommate

**A/N: I told myself I wasn't allowed to watch 'The Office' until this chapter was finished… three days later, I finally get to watch it. Sorry for the wait! Hopefully all 3,000+ words of this chapter makes up for it. Oh the nonsense of it all…**

**_(EDIT 3/31/11: For some reason, probably a result of bad karma or something, I've been unable to edit stories for the past several weeks. No idea why, but every time I tried to add a new chapter, I got an error message. But it's fixed! So here you are, chapter 4 :D)_  
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**Chapter Four: The Roommate**

That night I dreamt of the grocery store. Shelves and pyramids of fruit were whipping past, too blurred to describe in any detail. The resulting wind of my flight lifted my hair off my shoulders and carried a thrilled giggle back to the man pushing me in the grocery cart. I felt the cart jostle slightly as it took on his weight, his feet balancing on the bar below the plastic basket in which I sat. He took the long aisle way at a running start, only to jump up onto the cart and let us fly across the polished floor, uninhibited and free.

"Daddy, Daddy!" I stretched out arms clad in a polka-dot jumper and mismatching gloves.

"Hold on tight!" The cart jolted again, skidding to a stop as he ground his heels into the floor and saved us from collision.

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Waking up, I felt like I'd been dropped into bed. My heart pounded, my brain losing all direction and focus as a white jolt of shock drove my eyes open. Why did I feel so sweaty? I pushed myself up onto one arm, the opposite hand going to my face. The grocery store dream was a reoccurring one, and it never failed to rattle my cage.

The window was still open, though the breezes passing through had gone cold. Shivering slightly, I closed it. The sky was starting to lighten, bringing with it no promise for sunny skies. Overhanging clouds lingered in the spaces I could see, and rain would most likely follow. I sighed, noticing with some relief that my heart rate had returned to a state of normalcy. I fell backwards into bed, which made the mattress protest with the groan of ancient springs.

Now that I was relaxed somewhat, I could hear low sounds coming from downstairs. It was like someone talking. For a moment I was confused, then oh, right. Mom was leaving with the hunter John Winchester today. They were going to drive over a hundred miles away, leaving me behind to play babysitter.

I was slightly surprised that they hadn't already left. It was just after five in the morning, the perfect hour for an early start. For a moment or two, I stayed in bed, trying to convince myself that _this_ was the dream, and real life was back in that grocery store with Dad. What would Dad say if he could see us now? I knew for a fact he wouldn't like the thought of Mom going on some extended trip with the likes of John Winchester. He'd been notoriously jealous, like a school kid who was very protective of his homecoming queen. Lying there in bed, I smiled to myself, remembering my parents dance around the kitchen table while dinner burned on the stove. They never knew I'd seen them, but the look of pure adoration in my father's eyes set something of a standard for any men who would eventually want to enter my life. It may have been a twisted idea, but in a way I felt like I had to do my father's memory justice by choosing someone who could live up to the example he set on what it meant to be in love. In a way, I knew Mom had the same standard. With any luck, nothing resembling romance was going on between her and John.

Going back to sleep was an impossibility at that point. I pulled on my robe – a thin, practically useless article – and went downstairs.

I expected to see bags, bundles of clothing or at least a sleeping bag or two. None of those things were in sight, though I knew they must have been packed into Mom's truck. They must have been completely packed and ready, because when I stepped into the kitchen, Mom and John were seated at the kitchen table, heads bowed over untouched mugs of coffee.

"Oh, Emma," Mom said, looking up after I'd stood there for several seconds. "I didn't hear you come down. Did we wake you up?"

I shook my head. The lower level of the house was especially chill, so I wrapped my arms around myself. "Morning, Mr. Winchester," I said, glancing in his direction. His eyes seemed sunken somehow; dark purple half-moons beneath his lids clearly said he hadn't slept much last night.

"Morning," he said. Even tired, he attempted a smile. "Wanted to thank you for talking to Sam last night. Think you made him feel better 'bout the whole thing, really."

It was hard to believe that my brief conversation with Sam in the spare room could have reassured him enough to warrant a 'thank you,' but I nodded anyway. "No problem," I said. "He's a nice kid."

John only gave another weak grin, sipping half-heartedly at his coffee. He turned back to Mom, sighing. "Should we hit the road, then?"

Mom was spinning the ring on her left hand – her wedding ring, which she had never seemed able to take off. The thought made me look at John's hand, and sure enough, he wore a similar band. I didn't have to wonder about the fate of Mrs. Winchester. If John had resorted to hunting ghosts with his kids, his story couldn't be a happy one.

At a falsely-cheerful reply from Mom, John got to his feet. He started in the direction of the spare bedroom, but paused in front of me. "Do me a favor," he said, "and show Dean some serious hell if he screws up."

I laughed once, quietly. "What do you count as screwing up?"

John's face relaxed, breaking into a grin that seemed to come easier. "Oh, you'll know it when you see it."

"Yes, sir."

He went past me with a momentary pat on the shoulder. I didn't have to watch him open the door to know he'd gone into the spare bedroom, where his sons were no doubt awake just like I was. Mom and I were left alone in the kitchen, and she wasted no time in throwing her arms around me.

"I'll be coming back, now, you hear me, Emma?" she said into my shoulder. For the first time, there was a wavering of approaching tears on her voice. I hugged her tightly, as if that could stave off any type of crying.

"I know you will, Momma." I patted her back lightly. She and I were fairly equal in height, maybe five-foot-seven. Our hair was the same shade of light brown, a shade that Dad always used to call "confused," because of its tendency to shift red in the summer. I took a deep breath, with it absorbing the smell of coffee and Mom's distinctly lilac-scented shampoo. I'm not sure how long we stayed there, not saying anything, but after what seemed like seconds, we pulled away.

Mom's hand went to my hair, tucking invisible, stray pieces behind my ear. Her eyes were decidedly wet, and seemed to have leaked down onto her cheeks. "We shouldn't be makin' such a big thing of this," she said, giving a hiccup of a chuckle. "You and me are gonna be fine, aren't we? The Winchesters are good men, Emma. John will keep me safe, and his boys'll keep you safe. Works out, doesn't it?"

I mimicked her dry chuckle, thinking back to the conversation I'd intercepted last night. Dean didn't seem to want anything to do with me, and it was clear enough by then that _I_ would be taking care of _him_, more likely than not. But for Mom's sake, I nodded, doing my best to smile. "Yeah, Mom, it all works out."

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Mom's truck pulled out of the driveway and honked twice, a pair of hands jutting out of either window to wave goodbye. Sam and I returned the wave with weak smiles. We stayed on the porch and watched the truck disappear down the exact same path that Dean had taken the night before.

The clouds that I'd seen upon waking up were proving persistent, leaving no sign of sun and little of warmth. It was still early morning, hardly 5:30. I wrapped my arms around myself, still wearing that useless robe and short pajama pants.

"Come on, let's get inside," I muttered to Sam, but he was already holding the door open for me. He seemed to be handling this better than I was. Maybe it was experience.

The inside of the house was utterly still, stagnant and asleep. The only sign of Mom and John was their still-untouched coffee mugs on the kitchen table. I dumped the cold coffee down the drain, washed the mugs, and set them on the empty drying rack. Part of me wished the sink was full of dirty dishes; I craved something to do with myself until it was time to go to school, because I knew sleep wasn't an option.

I turned back, leaning against the sink with my arms once again crossed. Sam was lingering at the end of the kitchen table, his long hands curled around the top of a chair. He bobbed slightly on the balls of his feet. Just over his left shoulder, I could see the door to the spare room – it was closed.

"Is your brother asleep?" I said. When our parents decided it was time to leave, John came out of the spare room with Sam trailing behind. I hadn't seen any sign of Dean all morning, not even a call of good luck to Mom or John. If he really was asleep, then he had nerves of steel.

Sam's head cocked to the side as his shoulders drew up into a shrug. "He was awake to say bye to Dad. Don't think he is now, though." He bit his lip, rocking one last time between his toes and his heels, and finally standing flat on the floor.

"Well, you can go back to sleep, too, if you want," I said lamely. It was pretty clear that Sam was as wide awake as I was. "_Or_, you could help me make breakfast." A smile came onto my face, as half-hearted as it felt.

Sam brightened noticeably. "What are you gonna make?"

My grin widened at the owl-eyed look Sam was giving me. "Well it's a little recipe I like to call Emma's Super Special, Super Chocolate Waffles." Turning back to the cupboards over the sink, I drew out a large bag of chocolate chips. I shook the bag once, looking back at Sam. "Interested?"

Dad always told me that a way to a man's heart was his stomach. Since Sam Winchester wasn't quite a man, then maybe the philosophy only bought me into his friendship, which was exactly what I wanted. He was apprehensive at first to be put in charge of measuring out flour and milk, but after the second or third spill, he seemed to gain confidence. Mom's largest cooking bowl was filled to capacity with a gooey mess of waffle batter. The catastrophe only escalated when Sam dumped roughly a pound of chocolate chips into the mix. It was then that I directed him to a cleaner part of the counter with orders to pour out three cups of orange juice. He took to the task with some humility, but there was an unmistakable lightness in his face. I had to admit that I was feeling better, too.

Half an hour later, the table was laden with a highly-stacked plate of fresh, fluffy waffles, sliced apples, and strips of bacon that I found in the freezer. It wasn't a bad job.

Sam and I laughed when we realized how covered in flour we were. No matter how many times we batted at our fronts, arms, even legs, the white dusting seemed determined to stay. "Hey why don't you go wake up your brother now?" I said, cleaning up the counter with a rag. "Those waffles are gonna get cold soon."

The sound of hurried feet and the unceremonious opening of the spare room door led to several shouts of, "Dean! _Dean!_ Come on, loser, Emma and me made breakfast!" I glanced into the bedroom, which was still mostly dark, and I could tell that Sam was all but jumping on top of a mass of blankets that vaguely resembled Dean. The commotion carried on long enough for Dean to call Sam some very un-brotherly things. When Sam rushed back out into the kitchen, I'd set the table with three plates. Sam wasted no time in digging in, making me laugh again; Rus used to get overly-excited about food, too.

"Don't you people sleep?" Dean gave a loud yawn, standing in the doorway of the kitchen to stretch out his back. He was still wearing the same t-shirt from the day before – in fact, he looked exactly the same except for—

"Jesus, Dean, can't you put on pants first?" I said. Another thing I'd forgotten about having guys in the house was that they liked to sleep in their underwear. A lot. The only mercy appeared to be Dean's preference of boxers over briefs.

Dean straightened up, looking like he'd only just realized he was too naked for comfort. He was obviously joking around, though, as made apparent by that shit-eating grin on his face. "Well sorry, Emma, didn't mean to scare you."

"Scare me? Uh-huh, right." I sat down at the table and calmly pulled a waffle onto my plate. "No pants, no food."

Sam sniggered into his orange juice.

Dean took another step into the kitchen, to which I gave him a stern look. He stopped, one eyebrow raised. "You're not serious," he said.

I drew an oval around my face. "Do I _look_ not serious?" Not laughing was starting to become a challenge; beside me, Sam was bursting with contained giggles.

After opening and closing his mouth several times, Dean's shoulders slackened. He turned on his heel and went back to the spare room, grumbling something I couldn't hear. That struck Sam and I as even _more_ hilarious, and we broke into laughter once again. I wasn't sure why making waffles with a fourteen-year-old kid at the crack of dawn had put me in such a good mood, but suddenly the air in the house didn't seem so oppressive. I'd never been a big sister of any sort, but maybe that's why that morning had turned so completely on its head. With Sam there to worry about, looking so young and somehow vulnerable, it was like any will for self-pity I had was gone. Suddenly I appreciated Dean a little more, because without his recent jerk-ish exploits, I would never have been left to comfort Sam – even for just one morning.

I couldn't remember making waffles that had ever tasted so good.

**

* * *

**

It was clear that Sam had reached his limit of five waffles, not to mention three strips of bacon and two glasses of juice. Being fourteen must have worked up quite an appetite.

The morning was still young, maybe half-past-six. Rain started to fall weakly against the windows, but it wasn't quite a storm yet. For now, it was a comfortable atmosphere, so long as I didn't pay too close attention to the other end of the table. I'd tried and failed to think of something to say to Dean – anything, really, to relieve some of the silence on his part. But by the end of the meal, he'd said barely a word to me, and only a handful of things to Sam. He seemed to enjoy the waffles, though, because he packed away just as many as Sam.

"Can I use the shower?" Sam said. He barely seemed to notice anything uncomfortable going on, but then again he'd been fairly preoccupied with food and telling stories. In little more than half an hour, Sam told me half a dozen stories that glorified his dad as a hunter. The tales were no doubt impressive.

"Oh, uh, yeah," I said. I gestured vaguely to the same small hallway that led up to my room. "It's through that hallway on the left. The door is on the right. Towels should be in the—"

"Closet, yeah," he said, already standing. "Your mom showed me around yesterday." Carefully balancing everything, Sam cleared his plate and glass to the sink. He managed not to drop anything, thankfully. When he turned back around, he smiled at me. "Thank you for breakfast, Emma!" He snatched one more piece of bacon off the table and went off toward the bathroom.

"If he pukes," I said, putting my elbows up on the table, "it's your duty as his big brother to clean it up." Somehow I felt sleepier than I did before breakfast.

Dean surprised me by laughing with some sincerity. "Normally I'd object to that, but those waffles weren't half bad." He leaned back onto two legs of his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

"Flattery won't work on me, y'know," I said derisively. I started stacking the left over dishes, taking them to the sink to join Sam's. Dean was seated in the chair closest to the sink, and he had to put his chair squarely on the floor to allow me room. The kitchen was pretty small.

I'd just started running the water when Dean spoke again. "I can wash those for you," he said. I couldn't be sure if he was kidding or not. Before I could respond, he stood and moved in beside me, taking the dishrag from my hands. He flashed me another grin. "Dad says I've gotta be nice to you," he said as if in explanation.

I crossed my arms again, but in exasperation as opposed to cold. "Well don't strain yourself."

He was carefully scrubbing a plate; foam formed that encased his large hands. He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head slightly. "You don't like me much, do you?"

To say I was caught by surprise would be an understatement. I was left mumbling and scrambling for a moment, only falling into a higher degree of incomprehensibility when Dean caught my eye.

"Well what about you?" I said in a snap. "Yesterday at school I was just a vague outline of a human being to you. Oh no, wait, I was a vague outline with a hot best friend." The words lurched out of my mouth like small creatures I didn't mean to unleash. I've never been the type of person who thrives on conflict. As a rule, I avoided any drama like a particularly large pothole. I never – repeat _never_ – told a person I disliked them. I preferred to ignore them, rather than tell the truth. But in Dean's case, it was like he was asking for it; no one who smirked like that wanted to avoid trouble.

Dean continued to wash the dishes. Two of our plates had already made it to the drying rack. Silently, he finished the third and set it with the others. Only then did he set his hands on the edge of the sink and look over at me again. His words were measured, almost serious. "I didn't know who you were, alright? Dad took us to your house when we first got here yesterday, but you'd already left for school. Ain't my fault that Regina girl's a bit chattier than you are. She's cute though, ain't she? She single?" He lost all pretense of maturity to that same damn cocky grin. Suddenly, he was back to making fun of me.

I made a short groan and moved around him. The table was already cleared of food, thanks to two Winchester-sized appetites. I stopped with one foot on the stairway to my bedroom. Dean was watching me coolly.

"You can get your own ride to school, right?" I said. "I'd hate to see you cramp your reputation by showing up in anything but that stupid hotrod of yours. Yeah? Okay, good. Thanks for cleaning up." I gave him one last sardonic smile and started up the stairs at a clip. I didn't reach my room in time to miss him say—

"So Regina's single, then?"

My door slammed hard enough that it jammed.


End file.
